CHAPTER VI. THE GAME OF BLUFF. THE GAME OF BLUFF. An inscrutable note reached Harry by the last post that night. It was from Gordon Lowndes, and it ran:— "Leadenhall Street, E.C. "May 20. "Dear Ringrose,—If you are still of the same mind about a matter which we need not name, let me hear from you by return, and I'll 'inspan' the best detective in the world. He is at present cooling his heels at Scotland Yard, but may be on the job again any day, so why not on ours? Dear Ringrose "Perhaps you will kindly drop me a line in any case, as I await your instructions. "Yours faithfully, "Gordon Lowndes." Gordon Lowndes "What is it, my boy?" "A line from Lowndes." "Am I not to see it?" "I would rather you didn't, mother dear." "You haven't offended him, I hope?" "Oh, no, it's about something we spoke of in the train; it has come to nothing, that's all." And Mrs. Ringrose gathered, as she was intended to gather, that some iron or other had already been in the fire—and come out again. She said no more. As for Harry, the final proof of his father's dishonour had put out of his mind the oath which he had made Lowndes swear in that almost happy hour when he could still refuse to believe; and the sting of the reminder, and of the contrast between his feelings then and now, was such that he was determined his mother
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